


Wild and Precious

by Iridogorgia



Series: You've Haunted Me All My Life [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Haunting, Jim haunts Molly, ghost - Freeform, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 15:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?  Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?How Molly fell in love with a ghost, and tried not to waste her life beside him.  She failed.Molly x Jim





	Wild and Precious

**Author's Note:**

> I highly encourage you to read the first part of this series, Rust and Stardust. The first part stands on it’s own just fine, but you might get a little lost in this second half without it.

Molly wondered, on that first day, watching Jim roll around her ceiling like a lazy otter, if he had gotten stuck with her because she thought of him frequently. He was one of the most exciting things to have ever happened to her, and she constantly worried the memories in her mind, the ‘what if’ and the ‘might have been’. Those thoughts were smooth as glass from all the polishing she gave them. Did his reflection in her mind call his energy to her?

“Do you…need something?”

“Not really. Do you?”

She shrugged. “Not sure.”

He tapped the gun to his chest. “Maybe we’ll figure it out together.”

It had sounded like a threat, but to Molly it was a promise.

Together.

Not like he had a choice.

It didn’t take Molly long to get used to Jim floating silently around her. For Molly, if she endured something long enough, it simply became ordinary. 

Jim Moriarty’s ghost became ordinary.

—

She had felt self conscious about her table manners at first, when he watched her eat, but all that asking to stop got her was a slow, lazy blink and a defiant tilt to his jaw. Sometimes, when he talked, she could see through his brain. It never put her off her meal, even if she would study the inside of her own mouth, later, while she was brushing her teeth.

“How does it taste?” He was looking at her, one hand cupping his jaw and the other holding a heavy silver gun.

She took another bite of French onion soup. “It’s good. Thanks for helping me make it.”

“Simple chemistry,” he waved the gun in a dismissive manner, looking bored. “It’s not hard, Molly, once you know to coax out the flavor from the food. You have a degree, you should know how to do that.” He wrinkled his nose. “And you never add enough salt.”

She looked up at him sharply, but he wasn’t paying attention to her any more. He was looking at the whorls of steam coming up off the soup, and he reached one hand out to wave it through.

When Molly dipped her spoon in again, it was ice cold and tasted faintly of rot.

Moriarty wore a carefully blank expression, but Molly saw his hands flex.

She threw the rest of her bowl out.

—

The first time he snuck into her dreams, it was six months into his haunting and she hadn’t had the courage to bring anyone home. She’d been without sex the entire time and she felt herself going a little crazy.

Her mind helpfully supplied the imagery for her to find her release, even if only in a dream, and she dreamt of Jim. Not Moriarty, but soft, shy, sweet Jim.

He’d been better than most, sweet and attentive and _intense_ , under his delicate guise.

The dream was of what should have been their fourth time, before Sherlock had ruined everything with one syllable whispered under his breath. If Molly hadn’t heard and hadn’t cared and had just gone to have fun.

The dream started with a blur of color and scent and drink, a setting of the scene of The Fox. The bar they were supposed to meet at. Instead of arguing on the street, they’d gone inside.

Dream Jim’s hand had wandered up her thigh as she seductively sipped on her glass of wine. In real life, Molly Hooper had never made drinking look seductive, but the heady spice of the wine and the humming between her thighs made her feel…sexy. Molly had always felt sexy with Jim.

One of the best things about sex with Jim had been his spontaneity. Molly Hooper was a sexually active adult, she knew her body and she had no problem having sex on the first date if everyone involved was a willing participant who got past her awkward personality and aversion to new people. Jim had smoothly pushed all of that aside, awkwardly complimented her nose, and then proceeded to thoroughly debauch her. The first time they’d gone on a real date, she’d found herself in the back of a cab with his hands in her knickers and her face buried in his shoulder to stifle her moans. That night they’d had sex twice, once in her stairwell and once on her couch, before he’d gotten a phone call that had him apologizing profusely while running out the door. She had pulled him back, kissed him deeply and slowly zipped up his fly. His cock had twitched against her hand, his pupils had dilated and he’d promised to see her soon.

The second date had involved a locked office at work, their mouths locked together to muffle the sound, then dinner, where he’d sat next to her in the booth and kept running his hands up and down her thigh, and then he’d spent the full night in her bed. And her shower. And the next morning, making her late for work. He’d fixed her clock-in time for her after bringing her a coffee. Molly found herself smitten by the thoughtful gesture.

The third date had seen Jim kneeling between her thighs, while she’d been perched at the edge of her counter, and he’d made her come twice with his hands and his tongue and his _eyes_ , so focused on her. She hadn’t even taken the take away out of it’s plastic bag, and after she slid down on shaky legs, he’d helped her set the table. She’d made him sit in one of the chairs, freed his cock from his cheap cargo pants, and had ridden him mercilessly. By the time they were both satisfied, their curry had gone cold. They’d watched Glee together naked, eating bowls of reheated chicken and sauce.

And now, in her mind, the fourth date. The bar. The wine. His hand on her firm thigh. Would they even make it to the street? Molly wanted to think not.

He had leaned in and whispered against her neck, “What do you want, Molly Hooper?” He’d never asked her to choose before, always guided her with a firm hand, and the thrill of it had run up and down her spine. She’d arched toward him ever so slightly, finished her last sip of wine.

“I want another drink, please.”

He’d rolled his eyes while the bartender poured her another glass of house red.

He put both of his hands on the bar top and looked towards her. His smile was relaxed, playful, and his dark eyes were sparkling every so slightly. He looked…happy. To be with her. Molly’s heart constricted almost violently in her chest, because this dream was supposed to be about _sex_ , not about _emotions_. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything but arousal. He wasn’t supposed to do anything other than give her the release she so desperately needed.

She was saved from further introspection by a drawling voice behind her, “Well, well, well, Molly Hooper. Is _this_ what I was called in here to see?”

Jim Moriarty, standing behind Jim from IT, and she watched in horror as he nostrils flared, his eyes went straight for her crossed legs, and he looked around in recognition. The smile he turned on her was positively predatory.

“Our fourth date, Molly? I’ll tell you now you’ve got the setting wrong. It would have started outside of here, yes, but then would have turned into something much more…me. That was going to be the night you stopped fucking Jim from IT and started fucking Jim Moriarty instead.”

Instantly the scene changed, her outfit shifted, and Jim from IT melted away like fog under the morning sun. An expensive restaurant that she’d seen a picture of in the paper, her best dress, and Jim’s image wobbled for a moment before he was impeccably dressed in an entirely black suit, his head whole and face unmarred.

She was already seated, and he neatly pulled out his own chair and made himself comfortable. She was still holding her wine glass.

“…I…Moriarty? Is that…really you? Like, ghost Jim? Jim-who-spoiled-my-mustard Jim?”

He gave her an annoyed look. “Of course. You called for me, so I answered.”

She turned bright red, “Like…out loud?”

“Well, no. Not…” his eyes glazed over and he looked to the edge of the room, which was starting to dissolve into a soft mist. “You needed me. I felt it. So I came.” He shook his head and the room snapped back into focus. She took a shaky gulp of her wine. “And I see why. I should have known you were being _neglected_ , my dear, and don’t worry. Jim will fix it for you.” He gave her a wink. She looked away.

A sommelier came with a vintage Jim nodded his approval of, and poured two glasses. The one in Molly’s hand vanished. Silently, waiters floated out of the kitchen bearing covered plates. They set them in front of Jim and Molly, uncovering them with a flourish. The plates were empty, the china gleaming like clean bone.

Jim sighed, “I guess I really don’t have an appetite anymore. I simply can’t fathom the idea of eating.” He eyed her. “Well, eating food. You, however, look delicious.”

The scene suddenly switched and Molly found herself sitting on an expensive black leather couch, looking out of the floor to ceiling windows over London. Her shoes were gone and she longed for her glass of wine, if only to have something to do with her hands.

His jacket hit the couch beside her, and she turned to see him loosening his black tie. “We would have eaten there, me dazzling you with my wealth and power. Afterwards, one of my drivers would have picked us up. Taken us here, to one of my flats.” He bounced on the seat next to her, one hand going around her shoulders. “Based on how our other dates had gone, I assumed I would have been able to get you off in the private elevator. This is the top floor, you know, so it’s a long ride.” She stiffened next to him.

Uncomfortable.

“Jim…” she said softly. His leg was bouncing. “I…I probably wouldn’t have liked this. I liked _Jim_. From IT. I don’t care about power, don’t care about money. I liked who he was, or at least how you presented him to me. Finding out that he was a lie had just…crushed me. I wouldn’t have fucked you in this apartment. I probably wouldn’t have gone inside of the restaurant.” She looked at him sadly, suddenly feeling so foolish. Of course the Jim from IT wet dream had failed. He’d been nothing but a plot point. A fantasy. A glorious fiction and she’d eaten it up and asked for seconds, even when told the food was imaginary.

He was still beside her. “And now?”

She looked at him sharply. “Now?”

He was looking at her with those dark eyes, flicking up and down like she was the most interesting thing he’d seen in a long time. “Are you going to fuck me now? In this apartment? Me, Jim Moriarty?”

She studied him, the soft set of his jaw, the slice of his cheekbones, the delicate wings of his brow. She leaned in and he closed his eyes, dark flashes fanning against his pale skin, and she gently touched her lips to his.

He tasted like…gum. He tasted like spearmint. He tasted _alive._

Her breath hitched and then he _devoured_ her. The kiss was years of pent up need, some his own but mostly fueled by her. Before she really knew what was happening, her clothes were off, his clothes were off and _OH_ he was _right there_ and then…

She woke up. Between her legs was incredibly wet, and she throbbed the way she did after a very good orgasm.

Jim was floating above her, looking stunned.

Molly stared back at him, looking at her ceiling through his slack jaw.

He gave her a slow smirk and floated up to the ceiling. “Happy to be of use. You’ll be late for work if you linger.” She looked at her clock and groaned.

All she could think of while she sliced open corpses for the rest of the day was how incredibly bad it was that she was falling in love with a dead man.

—

The mundane with Jim became an exercise in patience. He kept trying to give her the keys to the riches of his old life, whether it was his bank accounts, his cars, his apartments or even his tailor. She could do nothing but refuse. He would make snide comments about everything she’d built for herself, and she would tartly invite him to go haunt someone else.

He would always respond by goading Toby into either jumping into a wall or knocking things off of counters and shelves.

At one point, after refusing his bank information for the tenth time that year, he gave a frustrated growl and shouted, “I’m trying to take CARE of you, woman!”

She shot back, “Then you shouldn’t have KILLED YOURSELF. You should be here, ALIVE, with me, instead of trying to shove your ill gotten gains into my honest life!”

He’d look surprised, as he always did when she showed a little bit of backbone.

She’d slammed her laptop closed, grabbed her purse, and stalked out the apartment.

Trying to give her wealth didn’t stop, but he did cease to make jibes about her current standard of living.

—

Molly had several boyfriends through the years, trying to drown the love of the dead with the warmth of the living. Jim was never outwardly jealous, but he did usually invade her dreams after she’d broken up with whatever mortal man she tried to settle down with.

Sex wasn’t a common theme in those dreams, not until dawn was approaching. Jim always said he wanted her to wake her up with her body _needing_ him.

Usually, Jim tried to take her through his old life. He showed her Paris, Hong Kong, New York, and they even took a sleepy ferry ride in Seattle once. He wrapped her in his scarf because Seattle was cold, then use the ends to pull her in to a kiss. He’d tasted like coffee and ocean air.

He rebuilt an atelier in Paris and made her try on dozens of beautiful dresses, and he helped her with practical knowledge of cut, fabric, color and draping. What would look best on her and what she should avoid. For a man who spent so much time getting suits tailored, he knew a lot about women’s fashion. She gave him an indulgent smile when he insisted she start buying these high end clothes. He’d taken her in the fitting room as the dream came to a close. “You’re most lovely when you’re naked, Molly Hooper,” he’d groaned into her ear as they came together and faded away.

Molly started living for and dreading those dreams.

After Jim had used Toby to chase off another suitor, this one threatening to toss the elderly cat out of the window for the claw marks on his soft bottom, she fell back onto the bed after slamming and locking the door.

He materialized next to her, “Shall we go to sleep now, darling? I wanted to take you to the cutest little cafe in Rome.” His tone was slightly mocking, and Molly found herself very weary.

“Why are you doing this, Jim? I’m alive. I want to live. I can’t do that in my dreams.” She turned to look at his face, which looked…carefully blank.

He looked at her slowly, up and down. “Is that what you were doing before I showed up, Molly Hooper? Living? Is that what you call that?” He pointed his gun at her face. “I would prefer to be _dead_.”

She couldn’t even be angry, just turn over and fall asleep. She didn’t dream of Jim, just of an endless blue sky.

She didn’t see him for a week, and he didn’t come back to her dreams unless she ‘called’ him.

She had to try and live. Without her noticing, her time had started to run out.

—

When he finally asked about Sherlock, she was just bitterly reminded about how happy Sherlock was with just his _work_. Sure, he’d said he loved her so many years ago, and it had taken her so long to understand that he didn’t mean it romantically. He couldn’t mean it romantically. His brain wasn’t wired to think romantic love was important. She was just a useful attachment.

She’d snapped at Jim and tried not to think about love at all.

“Do you love him? Here, now?” He asked abruptly, after shadowing her for thirty minutes while she cleaned the small apartment.

She sighed. “Sherlock has made it clear he’s married to his work.” She started dusting her knick knacks with slightly too much force.

He took the non answer for what it was and faded out for the day.

She let out a deep breath into the silent apartment.

He hadn’t failed to notice she hadn’t answered the question it’s entirety. She just hoped he never asked if she loved Jim Moriarty.

She didn’t know if she’d be able to lie convincingly.

—

He seemed to forget about the dreams and her emotions. He seemed to forget a lot of things. Jim spent more time simply staring out of her window, uninterested in the concerns of the mortal plane. Molly was fifty years old, and Toby was pushing the boundaries of the oldest cats known to man.

When he died, Molly had been not surprised by Jim’s silence.

She did, however, find him absently hovering over where the old cat’s bed had been more often.

The little spark in her heart flared slightly every time.

—

“Do you have any regrets?” She asked one day, staring out of the window. She hadn’t spoken for two weeks.

“A few.” She felt him settle near her. “Do you?”

“Enough to fill my remaining years with sorrow.” She studied him, still so handsome. Still so young. “For a long time, I wanted you to be with me. Grow old with me. But I can’t imagine an old James Moriarty at all.” She turned back to the window. “That seems like someone else’s dream that faded a long time ago.”

She took his lack of argument for agreement and turned back to the window. She grew weary of the day and fell asleep. In her dreams, she waited at a cafe for a man that never arrived.

—

After Molly had died, and oh how it had _hurt_ , the first thing she’d done was visit Sherlock. Jim’s fierce grip on her hand and the emotion in his face stayed with her, but she wanted to visit her old friend.

Sherlock had been just as tall as before, strong and handsome, carefully tending his bees. He’d taken a framed photo of her, and Toby’s paw print. ‘Sentiment, Sherlock?’ She’d thought with a smile. He had set a jar of pretty golden honey next to her picture, with her name neatly written on the label. She felt a pang in her heart. A similar bottle was next to John’s picture, and the dishes in the sink spoke to a recent visit from Rosie.

Molly resisted the urge to run her hands over his bent shoulders as Sherlock cried over the teacups.

Eventually, Molly had to move on.

When she went back to her apartment, she was surprised to find she couldn’t enter. It had been leased already? How long…

She felt a tug. A little pull from the center of her being.

A call.

She had to give it a response.

Floating high above London, she saw a pale form shining with starlight.

Molly had remade herself as the same as as when she’d dated Jim. The same age as when he’d died. Her white lab coat, her armor, and underneath one of the dresses from the atelier. A pretty blue chiffon concoction, but Jim had praised it on her from between her thighs.

She snuck up behind him and put her hand in his. It was solid. Real. Not cold, but not warm. Just…weight. She smiled.

“Want to take a girl to the stars, Jim Moriarty?”

The look on his face and kiss that had followed had been worth not living for all those years before.

Together, they faded up through the heavens.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
